


forget the protocol, i'll take your hand (right in mine)

by Boardingschooled



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Billy Hargrove Needs a Hug, Consensual Underage Sex, Harringrove for Australia (Stranger Things), Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Semi-Public Sex, this feels like a natural progression for me tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22624828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boardingschooled/pseuds/Boardingschooled
Summary: “Right, right, I’m an idiot,” the guy says, waving the thought away. “I’m Steve, Steve Harrington,  head prefect of Peter Johnson. Doc Brenner was supposed to be meeting you, he’s the official welcoming committee, but some idiot from the squash team broke his nose at practice and he had to go deal with that. Sorry, I know I must be a disappointment.”Or: Billy transfers to Loch Nora Preparatory, and Steve catches his attention.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 11
Kudos: 153
Collections: Harringrove Week of Love, harringrove for Australia





	forget the protocol, i'll take your hand (right in mine)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abigailcathleen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abigailcathleen/gifts).



> hi welcome to the thing I was SO EMOTIONAL to write about for one of my best internet friends [abigailcathleen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abigailcathleen/pseuds/abigailcathleen) for harringrove for australia! big thanks to her for prompting me to be self-indulgent!!!! (if you didn't know/my username didn't make it clear, I actually _went_ to boarding school, and it has so much good fodder for romance!!!)
> 
> title from _I Stand Corrected_ by Vampire Weekend, the band that single-handedly defines what boarding school sounds like (for me). I listened to a ton of vw writing this!!
> 
> oh, quick explanation of the referenced homophobia tag: Billy has some incredibly shitty experiences with a closeted guy at his last school that cause him to have to transfer schools. more explicit description on the end notes!

Billy gets dropped off at Loch Nora Prep on a Wednesday in late October. He waves off the decrepit old former teacher who apparently just, like, _volunteers_ to pick kids up from the airport, and as he’s looking out over the lush green quad in front his his new dorm, surrounded by his bags and Safelite containers full of bedding and shit, he hears the front door behind him swing open. 

  


“William?” the guy yells down from between two of the columns that line the perimeter of the front porch. He starts down the stairs, taking them at a clip so quick Billy’s surprised he doesn’t trip. “William Hargrove?”

  


“It’s Billy,” he says, mostly because he doesn’t have much else to say. The guy reaches him, hand already out to give a proper Ivy League handshake. Billy looks at him, grimaces down at all his shit in apology for leaving the guy hanging. 

  


“Right, right, I’m an idiot,” the guy says, waving the thought away. “I’m Steve, Steve Harrington, head prefect of Peter Johnson. Doc Brenner was _supposed_ to be meeting you, he’s the official welcoming committee, but some idiot from the squash team broke his nose at practice and he had to go deal with that. Sorry, I know I must be a disappointment.” 

  


The giant, practiced smile that breaks across his face as he says the last part gives him away as the same kind of cocky, overprivileged shithead as the guy he’s trying to forget from Sacred Heart, but, like, Billy can’t exactly control the way his stomach flips over when Steve leans down to grab the shit that Billy isn’t already holding. 

  


Steve’s _unfortunately_ his type, like, Billy _wishes_ he weren’t attracted to the whole _boat shoes and cashmere sweaters and more money than god_ thing that Steve pulls off so well. The hint of chlorine that Billy smells when Steve leans in to grab his bag of winter clothes marks him for a swimmer, and he’s got the broad shoulders and nipped-in waist to prove it. (Billy pushes the ghost of a thought about Steve in a speedo back into the dark corners of his mind, hefts his duffel bag a little higher.)

  


“Doc says you’re some basketball star or something,” Steve remarks as he leads Billy up the stairs. “ ‘S _that_ where that shiner came from?” The bruise isn’t gone yet, but it’s shadowy enough that Billy would’ve _thought_ anyone who noticed it would be polite enough not to bring it up. 

  


“Not quite,” Billy smirks, lets the look on his face and his leather jacket and the way his old uniform shirt’s unbuttoned a few buttons too low fill in the blanks instead of explaining further. 

  


Steve looks over at him, eyes sharp, a few beats longer than Billy wants him to. He really _is_ just like Noah, can’t stand a secret he isn’t privy to like a dog who can’t stand a closed door. Billy waits him out, though, doesn’t let himself rise to the challenge of Steve’s wide eyes with anything other than a quirked eyebrow and the tilt of his head towards the door Steve’s currently blocking, the one that has a sign that says _WiLLiAM_ next to the one that says _THOMaS H_. 

  


“Oh, right.” Steve pulls out a _truly_ ugly lanyard, baby blue with pastel pink Vineyard Vines whales printed on it in intervals, and grabs for the brass keys on the end of the keychain. “You’ll get your keycard to get into the dorms later, I’ll take you to the accounts office when I show you around campus.” 

  


“Sick,” Billy says, letting himself settle into the role he’s always played in places like this—quiet at first, the kind of guy everybody wants to be friends with because he just doesn’t seem to _care_ all that much, and then gradually he goads the spoiled little assholes around him into doing whatever he wants. If he can’t have the power the kids around him got just by being born, he’ll create his own.

  


“Tommy H is gonna be your roommate, he’s one of the guys from the hockey team,” Steve says as he puts Billy’s stuff down next to the empty bed. “He’s kind of a dick, but he’s fine, mostly. Kind of a clinger, really, when he’s around somebody who’s _actually_ cool.” Steve pulls one of the keys off his keyring, hands it over to Billy without ceremony.

  


Steve keeps up a running commentary as he shows Billy the dining hall, the med center, the ivy-encrusted dorms and class buildings. There’s no uniform, which is kind of nice, but the dress code is strict enough that Billy’ll basically be wearing a uniform anyways, no jeans or t-shirts or athletic stuff. 

  


The campus is prettier than Sacred Heart was, full of green spaces and weird statuary and classically designed buildings. Steve flirts outrageously with the townie girl who makes them each thick, chalky-smooth milkshakes in the student union’s little snack bar on Steve’s dime, daps just about every upperclassman they see on the tour like it’s _not_ the douchiest thing in the world. He even, like, wrestles half of the giant stack of textbooks out of Billy’s hands when they’re done in the bookstore, won’t listen when Billy asks for them back.

  


It’s pretty clear that Steve _runs_ Loch Nora, which is just more information for Billy to file away into the mental folder he’s compiling against his better judgement. Steve might be pretty to look at and, like, _actually nice_ , but he’s just another kid who’s gonna get into Harvard or Princeton or at the very least Villanova, join a frat, get a boring ass business degree and learn from his rich-ass daddy how to keep the family fortunes going while he has a respectable two-to-four kids with some pretty, bland girl who can sail a boat or ride dressage or something _else_ preppy and relatively useless. 

  


Billy’s probably barely even a fucking blip on this kid’s radar, and he hates the way that knowing burns him up inside. 

  


“So, like, Loch Nora’s _official_ policy on drugs, drinking, smoking, basically anything _fun_ is a two strike system,” Steve says as he’s explaining the hedonistic, dimly lit dances the school holds every Saturday night to keep them on campus and out of trouble. “But it really depends on which advisor’s on duty and whether you can actually hold your liquor. Doc’s not all that worried about us upperclassmen, says he did the same thing when he went here a thousand years ago, so as long as none of the other profs catch you, you’re probably fine.”

  


Billy _knows_ that what Steve’s talking about isn’t true, not for him at least. A transfer kid who got into all _kinds_ of trouble at his last school would already have any teacher worth their salt on high alert, and Doc _knows_ Billy’s on scholarship. If Loch Nora’s anything like Sacred Heart, and it so clearly _is_ already, scholarship kids are held to a different standard than the kids whose parents are paying full price. 

  


“Oh nice, ragers every weekend, then?” he asks, mostly to avoid having to say anything about his last school. 

  


“Kinda” Steve says, wrinkling his nose up and waggling his hand in front of him. It’s _stupid_ cute; Billy makes eyes at the girl who’s walking the opposite direction across the crosswalk to avoid thinking about it. “It’s hard to get it around here, all the liquor stores within walking distance are super strict about selling, so it’s mostly a special occasion thing. After big games or meets or whatever, guys’ll have their buddies over to pregame before dances and stuff. It’s just kinda asking to get caught, hanging out in the dorm after you drink.”

  


“Good to know,” Billy nods, sly look on his face like he’ll ever _use_ that information. “And what’s the deal with hooking up? D’you sneak girls into your room or something?”

  


“ _Technically_ you can get coed,” Steve grimaces, “But most people find somewhere quiet somewhere else on campus. Prefects can have the door closed and the lights off and stuff when they get coed, to make up for having to deal with the underclassmen all the time, but everybody else is kinda screwed.”

  


“Once,” Steve murmurs, elbowing Billy like he’s just another one of the guys which, technically, Billy still _is_ here, “I got a blowie in the dugout of the softball fields, and the campus cops drove by while Nancy was still half-naked. Didn’t catch us, though.” His eyes are alight with mischief, maybe a little clouded with some emotion Billy doesn’t understand, and Billy feels like he’s going to _die_ , like, he can’t help but imagine himself with a mouthful of cum and a racing heart and Steve looking down at him all dopey-eyed, suddenly illuminated by the headlights of the campus police. It’s kind of nice, even if it does send his mind hurtling back to the Sacred Heart infirmary, red and blue and white lights slowly revolving through the half-closed blinds as he’d given his statement to the well-meaning social worker and the rent-a-cop. 

  


“Hey! Billy!” Steve’s fifteen feet down the sidewalk, turned back to look at Billy all lost in horrible memories. “C’mon, _I_ have practice in half an hour and _you_ need to unpack before dinner.”

  


“Sorry, got distracted for a sec,” Billy apologizes, but he takes his time walking over. Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling a little, like he’s _expecting_ it from Billy already, after having known Billy for a grand total of forty fucking minutes. 

  


Steve hurries them though the other half of campus, only remembers to point out where the laundry building is when Billy asks. He’s clearly getting into sports mode, focus on everything else already slipping away. Billy wants to take up Steve’s attention like that. 

  


* * *

  


Billy’s roommate has the door propped open when Billy climbs back up the stairs to his room. Tommy’s nice enough, even if he’s _clearly_ the kind of dude who has to have a leader’s jokes to laugh at; he drags Billy to his table at dinner and introduces him to all the bro’ed out hockey players by their nicknames and points out the hottest girls as they come out of the servery.

  


“Who’s _this?_ ” A girl asks as she perches on Tommy’s knee. “It’s nice, to have some new blood so late in the school year.” She’s pretty, carefully curled hair spilling over the collar of her sweater. 

  


“My new roommate,” Tommy says defensively, wrapping one hand around her waist all possessive. Billy relaxes fractionally in his seat, lets their lovers’ spat wash over him as he surveys the rest of the dining hall. The usual cliques are all here: the theatre kids arguing in one corner; the STEM nerds, tinkering with what Billy assumes must be a robotics project; the gaggle of sad girls who all think they’re the next Sylvia Plath or some shit; the willowy, shiny-haired popular girls, playing with their Cobb salads and discussing what’s either some _very_ juicy gossip or _Daisy Miller_ , if the book that two of them are passing back and forth and reading from dramatically is anything to go by. There are, like, _six_ tables of guys all dressed the same in khakis and white button downs and ugly vests, probably all some flavor of intellectual jock or something, and Billy’s weirdly let down when he doesn’t see Steve. 

  


He finally spots Steve up at the dessert bar, hair still dripping on the shoulders of his pullover as he piles cookies and little triangles of spice cake onto a plate. He watches Steve (well, Steve’s _ass_ , really) as Steve wanders back to an isolated table, throws himself into a chair next to some girl who looks like everything the kind of guys who go to school here are going to marry in a decade or so, when they’re done sowing their wild oats or whatever. She’s got glossy dark hair and big doe eyes and slender wrists just begging for some kind of understated, hideously expensive jewelry to mark her as somebody's future wife. Billy hates her on principle. 

  


When a guy who looks like he hasn’t seen the sun or slept in about a year sits down on her other side and throws an arm over her shoulders, Billy watches her snuggle in close with something like satisfaction. 

  


“So what’s Steve’s deal?” Billy asks Carol, winces when he realizes it’s the first thing he’s said in fifteen minutes or so, at how _obvious_ he must be. 

  


“Steve? _Harrington?_ ” she laughs, pointing him out as if to confirm. “He used to be _cool_ , like, they used to call him _King Steve_ , and then he started dating Little Miss Perfect Nancy Wheeler and started spending all his time in the library and got fucking _boring_. Like, other than me and Tommy, usually people don’t even really _date_ around here. It’s just so much easier to hook up and be done with it.” Carol’s clearly kind of a gossip, but that serves Billy’s purpose well enough, and he doesn’t have to say anything to prompt her back into speech.

  


“And _then,_ for some mysterious reason, Wheeler _cheated_ on him with _Jonathan Byers_ of all people. Like, talk about a downgrade. And _then_ Steve’s a prefect this year so he spends all his spare time mother-henning those annoying freshmen that follow him around all the time.

  


“Like, he’s _fine_ , he’s still nice and everybody likes him and shit, but he’s not like he used to be. He and Tommy used to be _like this_ , and now they hardly ever even talk.” Tommy hears his own name, hisses at Carol all mad about not spreading his shit around, and she waves him off like he doesn’t even exist, starts giving him a detailed history of everyone’s fights and hookups and meltdowns. Billy listens with half an ear, turns over this new piece of information in his mind. 

  


So Steve’s probably straight then, or at least he isn’t _out_. Even with how _progressive_ schools like this claim to be, it’s still big enough when somebody like _Steve_ comes out that Carol would’ve mentioned it. That’s not surprising, really, even if it does hurt a little, out of nowhere. Steve’s a little strange, though, if he would rather hang out with his ex and her new boyfriend than take back up his rightful place as king. Something to think about while he picks at his pasta and grilled chicken, at least. 

  


An older guy who looks like he’s part of every good ol’ boys club in the _world_ drops his hand onto Billy’s shoulder, heavy and weirdly stern. He pulls Billy away from the dinner table discussion of Mr. Lowry’s miserable problem sets (once he’s commiserated with the hockey players and promised to talk to Mr. Lowry about extra credit or something), introduces himself as Doc. 

  


“Just call me Doc, son,” he offers, tailing Billy as he dumps his dinner dishes on the conveyor belt that takes them back into the kitchen to be washed. “I’m no good at formalities.” He steers Billy back towards the dorm and into his study, tells Billy all about the rules he can’t break and his new class schedule and a bunch of shit Steve already told him on the tour earlier. 

  


“Now, Mr. Hargrove,” he says, voice turning stern and serious, “Your old dean sent over the police report from what happened at Sacred Heart with your disciplinary records, and I just want to make sure we won’t have any trouble like that here.” Billy nods, keeps looking down at his hands loosely curled in his lap so he doesn’t have to look Doc in the face. 

  


“It’s not that we don’t want--uh, _your_ kind of people here, and you’re clearly a smart kid and great at basketball to boot, I heard all about the way you’ve been carrying the Sacred Heart team on your shoulders. We just don’t want to have any--unpleasantness. You understand me?” Billy nods again, looks up at Doc when he clears his throat in some implicit threat. “You know, Dean Hammond told me that that Noah Martinson kid lost his offers at Yale _and_ Princeton, after what happened. What a shame.” 

  


Billy _knows_ better than to say _well, he should’ve thought of that_ before _he beat the shit outta me after we got caught together_ , but he almost says it anyways. He’s got his scholarship to think of, though; he would rather hear these threats all fucking _day_ than imagine moving back home with Neil. 

  


“I’ll keep myself in line, sir,” he agrees, head bowed at just the right angle and voice _just_ sincere enough to be believable, just like he practices every time they send him home for a break. Doc nods at him, sends him off to try to start catching up on the half a semester of work he’s missed.

  


He’s in a weird mix of classes now, taking chem with the sophomores and calc with the seniors in addition to the rest of his junior-level classes because Loch Nora’s science classes are in a different order and he’s not about to retake precalc when he’s got the option to do calc now and not have to take math at all next year. Halfway through study hours, he gets too annoyed with Tommy, who’s building a model theater out of cardstock and balsa wood and rapping along with whatever shitty white rapper he’s listening to _just_ loud enough that Billy can’t drown it out without blowing out his own eardrums, to finish re-reading _The Grapes of Wrath_. He strips down, takes his shower caddy and his room key to the bathroom. 

  


They’ve got good water pressure, miracle of miracles, and Billy takes full advantage of the hot water. After fifteen minutes or so, though, Billy hears the bathroom door swing open. 

  


“Hey, idiot, no showers during study hours,” Steve yells over the noise of the water hitting the greying tile of the shower. “I don’t actually care, but if I let you I gotta let everybody else and I really don’t wanna have to deal with the drama.” 

  


“Sorry,” Billy says, slicking his hair back as he pulls the curtain back enough to see Steve messing with his hair in the mirror . “Didn’t know. Am I good to finish up, or…?” There’s this weirdly charged moment where Steve looks him up and down, makes searing eye contact with Billy in the mirror that lasts for half a second too long. 

  


“Oh, hey, B!” Steve laughs to himself a little, rubs at the back of his neck. “Sorry I called you an idiot, I just realized I totally forgot to tell you about study hours rules earlier.”

  


“‘Sokay,” Billy says, waving Steve off. He’s pretty much done, anyways, so he shuts off the water and grabs his towel. He dries his hair perfunctorily, wraps his towel around his waist and leaves the rest of himself still wet as he leans around Steve to grab his shower caddy from the counter. He’s _kind of_ testing a theory, here, and even though he knows he’s playing with fire, he can’t help himself, crowds in a little closer until Steve has to move away or risk getting his sweater wet. 

  


“Looks like _I’m_ the idiot, I guess,” Steve says, in a half-baked attempt at continuing their conversation. Billy hears the click of Steve’s throat, swallowing around nothing, sees the way Steve’s eyes trace a bead of water down his own skin and, viciously, thinks _maybe, maybe so_. 

  


* * *

  


Billy’s classes are fine, nothing to write home about, and the basketball team is just as bad as everyone tried to hide from him. It’s weird, how fast he gets used to the new routine, classes and schoolwork and almost-winning basketball games and dinners with Tommy and his friends when he’s not having team dinners. You wouldn’t think he would see Steve that much, given that they’re in totally different classes and both playing varsity sports, but it seems like no matter where he goes, Steve is _there_ somehow, brushing past him in the stairwell of the humanities building or standing behind Nancy and nodding seriously as she lectures the entire student body about something that Billy should probably be paying attention to at an all-school meeting or, a few times, standing at the sidelines of a Saturday basketball game, watching Billy as he _dominates_ on the court. Billy blows him a kiss once, after a particularly pretty three-pointer, and Steve blushes so hard his _ears_ turn red. The girl who’s in the stands behind him blushes too, and Billy winks at her, tries to get his head back in the fucking game. 

  


Billy’s sequestered in a mostly-hidden study carrel in a corner of the library’s quietly dusty basement, trying to find books he can actually _use_ for his US history paper on the Comstock Act, when Nancy Wheeler drags Steve into the next aisle of books. She takes him all the way to the wall like Steve’s a butterfly she’s trying to pin on a board or something. Billy’s trying to decide whether he wants to leave and draw attention to himself or stay and be forced to listen to Loch Nora’s golden boy while he (probably) gets back together with his nearly-perfect ex when he actually hears what Nancy’s hissing at Steve. 

  


“You can’t just _not apply to college_ , like, even if the college counselors don’t come hunt you down when you skip your next appointment, you’ve gotta go to college _sometime_ , Steve. What happens when you’re thirty-two and you can’t lift up your arm over your head from all the sports injuries? What do you do _then?_ ” Nancy’s right up in Steve’s space, poking him in the chest with her baby pink-tipped pointer finger as she lectures him; Steve’s looking at the floor, just _letting_ her give him shit. 

  


“Nance, you _read_ my essay, you know I’m not gonna get in anywhere. My father’s up my _ass_ about applying to Ivies and I _know_ I don’t have the grades to get in even if he _does_ donate enough for them to build a new library or whatever. What’s the fucking _point_ of all this shit? I don’t even _like_ school, and I’m practically failing calculus but they won’t let me drop down to finite, they said it _looks bad_ on a transcript or whatever.” Steve sounds so fucking defeated, and he might not be a merit scholar but Billy’s sure he’s not _that_ stupid. 

  


“I’ll help you,” Wheeler offers, and Steve huffs out an annoyed breath. 

  


“Can’t help a lost cause, plus you have't even _started_ calc yet,” Steve mutters all bratty, and Nancy slaps him across one arm, gentle but stern like he’s seen people’s moms do. 

  


“God, whenever you’re done with this bullshit pity party let me know and we can get you through this together,” Nancy complains as she stalks off through the stacks. It feels like a conversation they’ve had a million times, honestly, like they’re just arguing because they feel like they’re supposed to. 

  


Billy looks over at Steve, now sitting on the ancient, _nasty_ carpet stewing in his own misery, and before he can stop himself, he asks. 

  


“You, uh, you need a tutor?” Steve’s head whips around, eyes panic-wide at the sound of Billy’s voice, and he gapes like a goldfish, processing what Billy’s actually _said_ after the fact.

  


“You’re a junior, dude, so not unless you know calculus, no,” Steve says after a second, all his fragile brash confidence backing him up. 

  


“Roberts said he wants me to do some boring-ass senior research project for him next year,” Billy responds, lets a smug little smirk rise on his face. “Since I’ll be done with calc this spring.” He’s not planning on _doing_ a capstone in fucking _math_ , no matter what kind of _opportunities_ Prof Roberts might be able to give him. Maybe he’ll do one in bio, something like sports medicine where he can do practical training with the athletic trainers in the afternoons, but definitely not fucking _math_. 

  


Steve looks like his brain is short-circuiting or something for a second, but instead of refusing Billy outright, the way Billy half expects him to, he pauses, thinks about it for a second. 

  


“You know what? You can’t be a worse tutor than _her_ ,” Steve says, jerking his thumb in the direction Nancy stormed off. “She can’t explain _shit_ , God only knows how someone so smart can be so hard to understand.”

  


“You have to actually _understand_ it, to teach somebody else, like, the mechanics and shit. I’ve got you, though, dude. You want me to keep it on the DL, or..?” Billy knows the kind of dude Steve is, knows how fragile egos like his can be, plus the healthy sense of longing he tries to ignore leaps in his chest at the idea of stealing time with Steve, just the two of them, no one else in the world to take Steve’s attention off him. 

  


“Nah, dude, asking for help’s an important thing to show the mouthbreathers,” Steve says, confident in his role as older brother and sometimes mom for the group of freshman that got placed in Peter Johnson as overflow from the normal freshman boys’ dorm. (Somehow, Max knows them all, even though she’s at Miss Porter’s and they keep their girls on a short leash, since they don’t have any dudes around to get all horny about on their campus. All girls’ schools are a fucking _nightmare_ , according to everybody else in the world, but Max really likes it, says the competition is good for her with bared teeth.) “They’re all doing that annoying thing where they refuse to go see teachers during office hours, like, that’s the _only_ way I’m passing my history class right now.” 

  


“They’re mostly smart kids,” Billy half-defends, but he really doesn’t care that much about the little shitheads. “When do you wanna start?”

  


“We have a meet later at NMH,” Steve grimaces, “Or I’d say tonight. We won’t get back till like 9, though, and that’s super late to start anything. You got any free time tomorrow?” 

  


* * *

  


Steve isn’t _that_ bad at calculus, really. He gets the numbers mixed up all the goddamn time, and Billy tells him to go talk to the psychiatrist on campus, ask to be screened for dyscalculia. In the meantime, they work based solely on concepts, since the numbers don’t _actually_ matter that much in calc anyways. Steve gets frustrated easily, tries to walk away from the common room table where they study at _least_ once every study session, but he usually comes back. 

  


The closeness doesn’t do anything _good_ for Billy’s massive fucking _crush_ or whatever, just makes him appreciate the ways Steve’s _nice_ to people around him and the funny shit he says that sounds stupid but ends up making sense (mostly) once he explains it. Steve always brings him a triangle of cream cheese-frosted spice cake from the dining hall, offers to order pizza like _every_ night as if he doesn’t have a pretty strict meal plan for swimming. 

  


It’s the kind of cold January day where the ice sneaks under the collar of your coat and freezes you solid, right after they get back from Christmas break, when it all finally boils over. Billy and Steve talk shit about Tommy’s _abysmal_ performance at the whiteout game last night as they meander down to the union for the first dance of the school year. Usually they end up walking down with a big group, but Billy had had to shower again after his quick post-game rinse at the gym this afternoon, and getting his hair right had taken, like, an _embarrassingly_ long time. 

  


Once he’d finally been satisfied with his hair and his outfit (not that there’s much to be said for dance attire--he mostly just wears whatever jeans make his ass look the best and a tiny tank top under about six layers of insulation, because it’s fucking _cold_ in Connecticut in the ass end of winter), he’d gone through the common room on his way out, been surprised to see Steve lounging across an entire couch, waiting for him.

  


“You didn’t have to wait,” Billy had said, and Steve had looked up at him, eyes dark with something Billy had tried not to read anything into.

  


“It’s not like I haven’t been to a million of these,” Steve’d said, sounding weirdly serious. “Plus, this way we’ll make an entrance, captain of the swim team and the hero of our basketball team coming in together.” It sounded like Steve kind of liked the idea of the two of them, _together_. Billy had kept up his end of the nothing conversation on the way across campus, but his mind had been stuck thinking about King Arthur and Lancelot and Hamlet and Horatio and all the other kings he’s read about, flanked by their protectors and sometimes-lovers, if you read between all the lines. 

  


Union dances are, like, prime drama real estate. They’re the hormonal equivalent of an atom bomb, four hundred teenagers shoved into the open space where they usually have the ping pong tables set up, all the lights off except the preprogrammed strobes and colored LEDs and stuff that the theater kids program to make the union feel more like a club, the music up loud enough to half-deafen anyone close enough to the speakers. 

  


It’s half performative, girls dressing up and figuring out makeup and showing off all the trappings of femininity and guys alternately trying not to be noticed as they grind up on the girls or showing off their strength and truly terrible dance moves. He’s seen more rich white kids hit the woah-- _badly_ \--than he wants to think about ever again for the rest of his life. 

  


It’s also where, like, 80 percent of all the romances on campus start. The dark and the music and the hormones are heady, all together, and it’s easy to let yourself dance with someone you’ve never really spoken to, easy to let your body start to learn theirs in a place that’s neutral. There are pairs all over the dance floor, winding their hips together to whatever shitty rap song the student dj is playing, something by Waka Flocka Flame even though he hasn’t been cool for, like, _ever_ , and when Steve and Billy wander in, pile their coats and sweaters on an unclaimed hook together, the rest of the guys from the dorm are all scattered.

  


Billy’s considering his options--go into the fray alone and find some girl who’s willing to dance with him long enough to keep his reputation straight enough that Doc doesn’t try to talk to him about his _image_ or whatever ever again, pull Steve in close in one of the darker recesses of the room and finally fucking make a move, go find wherever Tommy’s wandered off to and see if any of the hockey players have a vape he can hit--when Steve’s hand, fingers still cold from outside, wraps around Billy’s wrist, pulls him into the writhing mass of people.

  


“Dance with me!” Steve leans in close to yell into Billy’s ear over the rumbling bass. There’s the vaguest hint of liquor on his breath, Malibu or something else fruity, and Billy’s horrified to realize that he wants to lick the faux-fruit taste out of Steve’s mouth. _God_ , he’s so messed up over Steve. 

  


Steve uses his iron grip on Billy’s arm to pull him in even closer, then starts to dance, in a rhythm that doesn’t quite match the thudding rhythm of the music they’re listening to. Billy huffs out a laugh, starts to move his own body, _with_ the beat. Steve yowls, wordless and joyful, and Billy can’t stop the smile that pulls across his face, the one that matches Steve’s just right. 

  


The last song starts to fade out, and one of those songs Billy’s heard snippets of from all the tiktok compilations he watches when he’s too tired to find something better to watch fades in, _leave all your inhibitions behind, let’s test all the borderlines like--_ . Steve yells along, still moving a little off-beat, and Billy can’t stop himself, watches from above himself as he wraps his hands over the cut of Steve’s hipbones, steers Steve into moving _with_ the music instead of against it. 

  


Steve looks down at him, eyes all dark again, and the crowd swells a little, pushes them closer together. They’re in a bubble all to themselves, too focused on each other to notice anyone around them, and Billy wouldn’t change it for _anything_. Billy’s, like, _sweating_ , now, from the humid air around him as much as from nerves. Steve’s hands land briefly on Billy’s biceps, flutter to Billy’s hands, then again to settle on Billy’s hips. Steve looks like he wants to _eat_ Billy, and Billy’s not fucking dreaming--he can _feel_ how interested Steve is in his grey sweatpants that drive Billy fucking _insane_ even when they’re _not_ all over each other. 

  


Steve leans in, and Billy’s face betrays him, mouth puckering like he’s ready to be kissed or something. Steve bypasses his mouth, though, which is probably for the best, given how public they are, and whispers in Billy’s ear instead. 

  


“You wanna go back to the dorm?” he asks, breath hot and still a little alcoholic, and Billy--he wants nothing more, if he’s being honest, but he _knows_ this is a bad idea, like, Steve’s straight, or at least everyone around here thinks he is, and Doc’s face, grimacing around the word _unpleasantness_ , is suddenly in his mind’s eye. 

  


“I--I _can’t_ ,” Billy says, and runs away like a fucking idiot. He’s too flustered to try to find his coat among the sea of other black puffer coats, and he’s not enough of an _idiot_ to wander around outside, _basically shirtless,_ when it’s fifteen degrees below zero; instead he just runs downstairs, catches his breath in the LED glow of the bank of vending machines. He’s working up the courage to go back upstairs, pretend like he isn’t rattled to his very _bones_ by what just happened, when the music suddenly gets louder, as if someone upstairs has just opened the door to the stairwell. 

  


It’s probably either a couple looking for a quiet place to get cozy or a teacher looking for couples, and so Billy ignores the sound of feet on the stairs. All of a sudden, though, he’s face to face with Steve goddamn Harrington, surprise stealing his breath.

  


“Why’d you leave?” Steve asks, eyes wide and voice quiet, and Billy can _see_ the hurt writ large across his face. Billy doesn’t really know what he’s going to say, but his mouth opens of its own accord. 

  


“I’m no good for you, pretty boy.” It’s hard to say, hurts him down deep, but it’s _true_. “You’re better off with some nice girl who you can show off.”

  


“Who says I can’t show _you_ off?” Steve asks, all mad like he’s defending Billy’s _honor_ , and Billy can’t help but smile, looking away so Steve won’t catch it. 

  


“Yeah, whatever, I know plenty of guys like you. You’ll say whatever you need to, and then the second your dad says something homophobic at Thanksgiving dinner you’ll forget you ever met me.” Billy doesn’t mean to show so much of his hand, but Steve’s so _close_ , smelling like the green Polo bottle on his dresser and the faint edge of chlorine that never really leaves Steve’s skin, and he can’t think straight, can’t push past Steve and pretend like this never happened over omelettes at brunch tomorrow, they way he knows he should. 

  


“Who told you _that?_ ” Steve sounds somehow softer, gentler as he takes another step in towards Billy. “My mom’s, like, the vice president of her local chapter of PFLAG, and my dad’s an asshole but he isn’t a _bigot_.” He reaches out a hand, traces the backs of his fingers across Billy’s bicep like they’re in some teen rom com. It’s cheesy as _hell_ , but Billy still shivers, just a little, goosebumps rising. Steve smirks wider, radiating that cocky fucking rich kid attitude that Billy can’t get enough of as he braces himself against a vending machine, arm above Billy’s head, and leans in, so close Billy can feel Steve’s breath puffing across his cheek. 

  


“If you don’t want me to, I won’t. Just--tell me, yeah?” Steve’s overconfident mask slips, just a little, as he looks down at Billy, nervous wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. He doesn’t move away, though, just meets Billy’s eyes and _waits,_ biting his lip like he’s resisting temptation.

  


Billy ignores the little voice in the back of his head reminding him of all the _very good reasons_ he shouldn’t and leans in, wraps one hand around the back of Steve’s neck to steady the both of them. 

  


Steve’s the kind of guy who puts all of himself into his kisses, radiating heat in one long line along Billy’s body. Want roils in Billy’s gut, and he can’t help but pull Steve in closer, gasps for breath between their frantic kisses. Billy’s rolling his hips in time with Steve’s, slow and heady, when there’s the distinct _bang_ of the door and the sudden increase in volume from upstairs, Tyler the Creator singing _your love is shaking me up._ Somebody’s coming.

  


Steve doesn’t even pull away, resists a little when Billy pushes him away like he doesn’t even _care_ , like he wouldn’t be ashamed to be caught like this. Something warmer, more _joyful_ than the want swirling in his belly rises, and he has to fight off a bark of ill-timed laughter. 

  


“They give _anybody_ detention, getting caught at dances like this,” Billy hisses, and Steve’s eyes unglaze a little. Billy half expects him to shake his head clear like a dog coming out of the rain. He grabs Billy by the hand, pulls him down the service hallway that links the pool and the student union at a steady--but stealthy--clip. 

  


“I know a place we can go,” Steve says, half-sings to the tune of that _super_ gay song Billy would never admit to loving.

  


“No, no, for real,” he says over Billy snickering at him, “I have the keys to the guys’ locker room down here for early morning practices.” He’s fiddling with a key from his keyring, swearing at the lock when the key doesn’t work on the first try. He gets it, finally, and Billy’s so goddamn conditioned that the smell of chlorine that rushes out to meet them doesn’t even bother him that much. 

  


“C’mon,” Steve urges him around a corner and down a tiny hallway to a massage table in an alcove--the fucking _swim team_ has a dedicated trainer area and the basketball team has to share their trainer with the wrestlers? _God_ Loch Nora sucks--and there’s a brief, awkward moment where they just look at each other, both clearly waiting for each other to hop up on the table. Billy breaks the stalemate, stalks over into Steve’s space, backs him up and onto the table and then kisses him senseless. 

  


Steve makes this breathy little sound that Billy wants to hear on a loop for the rest of his fucking _life_ , lets Billy guide him horizontal. For one horrible, joint-creaking moment, Billy’s not sure the table will hold the both of them, but it settles and seems at least _mostly_ structurally sound, so Billy just leans down again, bites at Steve’s lip just to see what noise he’ll make. 

  


It’s a good one, and from the way Steve’s hips jerk, Steve likes it kinda rough. Billy can’t keep his hands off Steve, rucks up his shirt to feel the fan of his pecs and the smooth skin of his narrow waist and the little bit of belly still soft right above the waistband of his sweats. Steve scrambles out of his t-shirt, yanks at Billy’s hem until it’s just easier to take the fucking thing off himself.

  


Steve gropes for the fly of Billy’s jeans when Billy makes no further progress, huffs when he can’t get a good enough grip to get Billy out of his jeans. Billy sits up, grinds down against Steve as he unbuttons his fly, pulls down his zipper. He drags his knuckles along Steve’s waistband lightly, just to tease, leans down and eats up the quiet gasps of anticipation that fall from Steve’s mouth with a wicked smile across his own. 

  


“ _God_ , you’re like _porn,_ ” Steve huffs out, sounding almost _mad_ about it. “Who gave you the _right?_ ” There’s this note of something like _wonder_ , too, and Billy can’t let himself feel anything this heavy right now, so he sticks his hand down Steve’s pants, mouth watering at the contrast of velvety skin and vaguely prickly pubes--of fucking _course_ Steve shaves, he probably thinks it’s aerodynamic of some shit--and Steve _cries out_ , sounds like he’s about half a second from popping off. Billy’s suddenly close, too, rutting up against Steve’s thigh.

  


He doesn’t let up, just flicks his thumb against Steve’s frenulum on the upstroke and looks his fill as Steve shakes apart. The pleasure-stricken look on Steve’s face as his dick jerks in Billy’s hand, eyes crossed and mouth slack, is kind of stupid but it’s hot as _fuck_ too, the way Steve trusts him to see Steve at his most vulnerable, to _make_ Steve feel this good.

  


“ _Fuck_ , Billy,” Steve sighs, breathing hard like he’s just pulled himself out of the pool after a 100M sprint. “You got this, baby.” His fingers are shaky when he presses them into Billy’s skin, encourages Billy to roll his hips against Steve’s thigh. One hand snakes between the two of them, and Steve’s hand, slicked with the precum Billy’s been dripping for what feels like _forever_ and like _no time at all_ , barely gets all the way around Billy’s dick before he’s popping off with a groan, teeth set into the soft skin at the base of Steve’s neck as gently as he can. 

  


“ _Jesus,”_ Steve mutters while Billy’s slumped on top of him, trying to catch his breath. “Is sex always _like that_ for you? Like, are you just a sex god or something?” Steve sounds genuinely curious, like if Billy looked him in the eye and said _actually, yeah, I’m a succubus_ Steve would believe it. 

  


“Nah, only with you, pretty boy,” Billy says, truthfully, untangling himself from Steve. He uses his tank top to wipe himself and Steve up perfunctorily like a fucking _gentleman_ , even grabs Steve’s shirt from--oops--a small puddle of water on the floor. 

  


“God damn it,” Steve complains as the wet shirt slaps into his chest. “You won’t even let me enjoy the afterglow, you _asshole_.” He’s laughing, though, so Billy just rolls his eyes, slaps gently at Steve until he sits up on the table, puts the half-soaked shirt on, nose wrinkled with distaste. 

  


“Let’s go get our shit, we can go Netflix and chill,” Billy suggests, and Steve laughs like he’s surprised. He doesn’t say no, though, just winks and leads Billy back through the locker room and the dance and the fucking cold and into Steve’s bed. 

  


Doc tries to say something to Steve about the bitemarks livid on his neck the next day at Sunday brunch, because all the teachers have a front row seat to all the relationship drama that happens on campus; Steve feigns ignorance and name-drops his father like an _asshole_ and scoots his chair ever-closer to Billy’s as they argue with Nancy goodnaturedly about the Krebs cycle. Billy shrugs up at Doc, knows he’s kept his fucking nose clean other than this, and Doc might have a look on his face like he’s just licked a battery but he doesn’t say _shit_. 

  


It’s a good fucking weekend.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Trigger Warning:** Billy was hooking up with a guy at his former school, and when they were caught together it's heavily implied that the guy accused Billy of coming onto him and physically assaulted him. (the guy, in my mind, fully does lose all his college acceptances and works at a liquor store where he wastes the rest of his life sighing about what a cool dude he could have been. this guy fucking S U C K S.)
> 
> now, here's all the minor deets/easter eggs/notes/whatever you wanna call them!
> 
>   * Peter Johnson, their dorm, is ABSOLUTELY referred to as double dick. teenagers are garbage who want to make as many innuendos as humanly possible, as referenced by the TWO dorms at my high school with sexual nicknames.
>   * Normally, scholarships don't transfer from one prep school to another since they're all independent and horrifyingly expensive.Please excuse this plot hole however you would like (I personally like to believe it's because a prof from his old school saw how shitty his home life was and went to bat for him after he and _Noah_ \--no offense to any Noahs out there--both got kicked out.)
>   * Yes, horrifyingly, I did one time suck a dick in the JV baseball field dugouts IN A SEMI-FORMAL DRESS. I have no interest in discussing this further but am still not ashamed. (I did not, however, hook up with anybody in any of the locker rooms, probably because I was a giant theater nerd.)
>   * Tommy is FULLY based on the starting line of the varsity hockey team at my high school, who heard that technical theater was basically just shop class and signed up and sparked my deep and undying love for hockey players. the hockey players I went to school with _did_ build a to-scale replica of the stanley cup out of plywood, but they didn't actually build model theaters. The idea of hockey player Tommy H fiddling with paperboard and balsa wood was just too fucking funny for me not to include.
>   * The song Steve kind-of sings to Billy is _I Know A Place_ by MUNA, which is a Very Gay Song (tm)!!!
>   * The other songs I reference are _Indigo_ by 88rising and NIKI and _Earfquake_ by Tyler the Creator. A song that was not directly referenced but ABSOLUTELY captures the vibe is _Jesse Jesse_ by Trixie Mattel, which is a certified bop.
>   * Doc Brenner is based (a) on horrible garbage man Dr. Brenner and (b) on the 'doctor' at my high school who was ALWAYS busy with the hockey/lax/football players's strained muscles or whatever and once LITERALLY ALMOST CAUSED A GIRL TO LOSE THE USE OF ONE HAND because he didn't actually do a thorough examination when she tore a bunch of ligaments in her palm catching a fastball or something. very cool, dude, very fucking cool.
>   * By far the best thing about being not-straight at boarding school is how much easier it is to hook up with people in comfort. Jesus it's so convenient by comparison.
> 



End file.
